


Digestif

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Downton Abbey Fusion, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Aristocracy, Buggering billiards and bollocks, Christmas Party, Downton Abbey but make it gay sexy and ineffable, Edwardian Snobbery, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Flirting, Footsie, Hey I Just Met you and This is Crazy But You're the Heir So Let's Get Nasty, Inheritance Issues, It Was Funny To Me At 5am I swear, M/M, No Billiards balls or tables were harmed in the writing of this smut, No Period-Typical Homophobia, No beta we fall like Crowley, Oral Sex, Rated E for Improper Use of A Billiards Table, That's it that's the plot, The Inherent Eroticism of Joking About Murder(ing Each Other), awkward social interactions, hark the herald angel sings because Crowley makes him, they're fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26588140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Anthony Crowley has just discovered that he's the heir to an impressive estate and a raft of titles. Unsure of how to conduct himself in high society, he gratefully follows the lead of his new acquaintance, Aziraphale. He follows that lead all the way to the games room where a billiards table finds itself subjected to an unusual use.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 241
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	Digestif

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to get it out of my head. You're all welcome.
> 
> Thanks for the tag help, Janthony!

Anthony Crowley doesn’t belong at this party, he doesn’t belong in this house, with these people, in these clothes, and he knows it. They all know it and it’s obvious from the empty space he occupies. It’s as if there’s an invisible barrier constructed 3 feet around him, it moves with him if he tries to approach any of the other guests. He didn’t try that for long, quickly picking up on the distasteful glances and whispered snipes that follow him. These barbed acknowledgements are the only thing keeping him from wondering if he has become invisible.

Even the staff don’t seem to care for him, a fact which surprises him at first. The footmen circling with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres are adept at avoiding him without making it obvious, damning him to an entirely sober start to the evening. He had heard of staff being fiercely loyal to the families they serve, but to be so snubbed for something that was entirely out of his control felt unusually cruel.

He starts as someone approaches, breaking the barrier around him with easy steps. A man with smiling eyes and curling blond hair holds out a champagne flute. Anthony takes it on impulse and then wonders at the wisdom of accepting it.

“Poisoned, is it?” he asks, trying to sound jovial and coming off rather sullen.

“Would that make you more or less likely to drink it?” the man asks, startling Anthony into a laugh.

“Even odds, I’d say,” Anthony says after considering it. “So I suppose the answer doesn’t matter.” He takes a sip of the champagne. He doesn’t know much about these things, vintages and vineyards and such, but it tastes good to even his unrefined palate.

“You looked like you could use an ally or a reason to escape.” The man takes a sip of his own drink. “The truth is, I’ve clean forgotten which of these glasses had the poison in it.” He’s smiling again and Anthony feels himself relax for the first time since he boarded his train that morning. “I’m Aziraphale, as it happens. Never Az, Zira, Azzie, or any other abbreviation, if you please. No matter what my sisters might tell you.”

Anthony moves his glass to the other hand in order to offer a handshake.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Aziraphale, short as it may prove to be when one of us meets our untimely demise. I’m Anthony.”

Aziraphale takes his hand and squeezes lightly.

“Yes, the famous Anthony J. Crowley, I’m afraid that I have you at a disadvantage.”

“So it seems,” Anthony agrees, feeling his eyebrows raise in question.

Aziraphale laughs again, a gentle sound free of mockery. Anthony thinks that it might be the most pleasant sound he’s heard in months.

“Don’t fret, dear chap, I imagine that everyone here knows who the mysterious stranger with the red hair is. Frightful bad manners of my father to invite you to such a large gathering before letting you meet the family first.” Aziraphale speaks easily and confidently, as though he’s certain of his audience’s attention. Anthony envies him that ability.

“Father? Family?” he stutters, feeling lost. “I was invited by Lord Fell.”

Aziraphale drains his champagne and signals to a footman to bring over a fresh glass.

“Yes, my father, Lord Fell,” Aziraphale says once he has a full glass again. He takes Anthony by the elbow and leads him to a less populated corner of the room. “You really haven’t been told very much at all, have you?”

Anthony can only shake his head, feeling more the fool with every passing second. He’d never even heard of this family and their estate until two weeks ago when Lord Fell had called in at his office in London, informing him that, through some scrupulously written entail, Anthony was his legal heir and set to inherit a significant package of income, property, and titles upon the current Lord Fell’s death. Then he’d been given an invitation to a Christmas party at the family seat in Sussex.

“Am I the butt of some cruel joke?” Anthony asks, oscillating between confusion and anger.

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale says, laying a hand on Anthony’s forearm in an obvious attempt to calm him.

He stares at the hand on his arm for a moment, trying to remember the last time someone had touched him so kindly. Letting the contact soothe him, Anthony absorbs the warmth of Aziraphale’s easy smile and manages to take the venom out of his tongue before speaking again.

“Then how am I the heir to an estate of a man with a living son?” He sounds wary even to his own ears, exposing his vulnerability too easily.

“I could wring Father’s neck for this,” Aziraphale seethes before settling himself, “It’s quite simple, really. By the wording of the entail, I’m illegitimate. Father was married briefly in his youth, the divorce was quite the scandal I’m told. When he married my mother and at the time of my birth, his first wife was still alive. My sisters are all legitimate, having been born after the former Lady Fell had passed, but there were no more sons.”

Anthony takes a moment to process this. He’s a lawyer, contracts, deeds, and entails are his bread and butter, if Lord Fell had outlined the matter in full, Anthony might have been able to find a way to break the entail or discharge his own interest back to the family. It would have been a far better outcome than having to stand around and be ignored by people who think so lowly of him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “you must hate me.”

Aziraphale tuts and knocks his elbow against Anthony’s side in a gesture of familiarity and friendship. To be so easily accepted by the man he’s usurping is unreal. Anthony is consumed with gratitude and relief that Aziraphale should be this kind, welcoming creature. He seems the sort of man that has no enemies, only a string of admirers and lovelorn sweethearts.

“Why should I hate you? This isn’t your doing any more than it is mine. These are the hands that fate has dealt us and all we can do is play them as best we can.” Aziraphale is almost eerily calm, but then, Anthony supposes, he’s had his whole life to get used to the idea of not being the heir.

“Still,” he says, a little desperately, “there may still be a loophole or clause we can exploit to put this to rights.”

A bell chimes at the far end of the room and all further conversation is made impossible by the tide of finely dressed gentry that flows into the dining room. Anthony loses track of Aziraphale almost at once, feeling bereft without the one kind face he’s found so far. All he can do is follow the other guests into the next room.

A footman approaches Anthony as soon as he crosses the threshold, giving a sharp nod that might pass as a bow and indicating that Anthony should follow. He’s led around the table and shown to a seat near one end. A little card bearing his name is resting on top of the place setting and the footman whisks it away before pulling Anthony’s chair out for him.

Hearing gasps and hissed whispers, Anthony begins to worry that he’s done something wrong. Other people are sitting, a mix of men and women, so he doesn’t think that’s the problem. His name was on the little card, he’s supposed to be in this seat. Unable to work it out, Anthony feels his cheeks redden in response to the unkind attention he’s being subjected to.

The table is long enough to comfortably seat 30, each place setting boasting crystal glasses and highly polished silverware. For one dizzyingly daft moment, Anthony considers pocketing a salt cellar or a spoon just to see how much he could sell it for.

He’s knocked out of this thought by movement across the table. The chair opposite him is pulled out and Aziraphale sits down, smiling as warmly as ever.

“Thank heavens,” Anthony says, “I thought I might have seen the last of your friendly face for the evening.” Aziraphale laughs and Anthony feels bold. “Perhaps you can tell me why the cold reception I’ve been getting has turned even icier?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale waves a hand dismissively, “it’s all petty politics. _Everything_ has a meaning when you have this much free time on your hands. It seems that people are scandalised by where you are sitting which is, again, not at all your doing. Ignore them.”

Anthony looks about at the filling seats in confusion.

“Where I’m sitting? What’s special about it?”

“It’s all about proximity to the host and where other people are in relation to you. It really is quite tedious.”

Opening his mouth to ask another question, Anthony feels rather than hears the hush that falls over the room. He shuts his mouth so quickly that his teeth click, but the words are kept safely inside.

Lord Fell walks the length of the table, smiling and nodding at his guests until he reaches the end where Anthony and Aziraphale are sitting. There are two seats to Anthony’s right and then what he now knows to be the head of the table. Lord Fell takes his seat like a medieval king gracing the court with his presence.

“Anthony! Glad you could make it!” he says as soon as he’s settled, his voice is a booming assault that can no doubt be heard by every guest. “Have you met the rest of the family? Lady Fell, here, my daughters, Mary, Edith, and Sibyl, and, of course, my son, Aziraphale.”

The four women seated above Aziraphale and himself all nod in turn, lacking the warmth of Aziraphale’s smiles.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Anthony says and is rewarded with an encouraging grin from across the table.

“I hope you’ll come to see us all as family very soon,” Lord Fell booms again.

It’s smart, Anthony thinks, letting the guests and staff know that he’s being welcomed and accepted by the head of the family. It’s a shame that it didn’t happen an hour or so earlier when he was being avoided by everyone in the county. Still, he can appreciate the gesture now and, perhaps, allow himself a little gratitude that his status as social pariah allowed him the chance to meet Aziraphale.

Dinner is an ordeal the likes of which Anthony has never before endured. The courses are endless and some of the dishes look more like sculpture than food. He tries to sneak surreptitious glances across the table so that he might follow Aziraphale’s example, which piece of cutlery to use, how to dismantle the dish, which parts are actually edible and the like.

He thinks he’s getting away with it until Aziraphale subtly clears his throat, drawing Anthony’s attention to his face. With a pointed glance and slight lift of his eyebrows, Aziraphale manages to convey that Anthony has picked up the wrong fork, just before he makes a fool of himself.

Covering with a self-deprecating laugh, Anthony switches utensil and tries to express his gratitude with just a look.

Looking at Aziraphale’s face turns out to be a mistake. Anthony catches him with his fork raised to his lips, eyes lightly closed, and perfectly shaped lips parted. He watches, spellbound, as Aziraphale’s mouth closes around the morsel and his eyelashes flutter ever so slightly. Aziraphale moans, softly, under his breath, barely loud enough for Anthony to hear, and yet he is certain that he was meant to hear it. It’s sensual and seductive, and when Aziraphale looks at Anthony through his lashes, Anthony knows that the show is all for him.

He’s staring openly and part of his brain is screaming at him to look away, to regain his composure. He barely manages to glance down at his own plate, spearing a bite of carrot and eating it without tasting anything. When he looks up again, Aziraphale’s eyes are on him, watching and smiling. His stomach lurches and it’s all he can do to stay seated.

Bolting from the room because a pretty man made eyes at him is hardly going to help his reputation in this pack of wolves. Anthony forces himself to return the smile, trying to make it warm and genuine rather than tight and afraid.

“Scrumptious,” Aziraphale says, looking directly into Anthony’s eyes.

Feeling his cheeks grow warm, Anthony directs his full attention back to his dinner. He manages almost a full minute of not looking at Aziraphale before his eyes wander up from his plate again. He’s immediately treated to another little show of near indecent enjoyment. This time, as Aziraphale drags the tines of his fork over his bottom lip, Anthony feels a touch on his ankle.

The smooth toe of what he presumes is Aziraphale’s boot strokes up his calf, a gentle pressure that sends shivers racing up his spine. It’s so bold and unexpected; Anthony is certain that his face must be a picture of confusion and shock, yet no one is mentioning it.

He’s torn between pulling away, refusing to be drawn into whatever game Aziraphale is playing with him, or pushing back, touching his own toe to the offered ankle and return the advance with a welcome. Above the table, Aziraphale is as composed as ever. His little noises of enjoyment are still mildly suggestive but there’s nothing to suggest that he’s stroking the inside of Anthony’s knee with his toes.

This development forces Anthony to re-evaluate their earlier conversation. Had all the touches and smiles been as platonic as he first suspected or was there a thread of attraction running through them all? Or was this all a scheme to seduce Anthony and ensnare him in a marriage that would see Aziraphale inheriting the estate by proxy?

For himself, he knew that the flame of affection would be easily stoked by Aziraphale’s attentions. He’s already half in love with the unguarded way Aziraphale smiles, and the gentleness he’s displayed in aiding Anthony’s navigation of this social wilderness.

It’s a rash decision, but suddenly Anthony feels that the risk is worth the potential reward. It seems deeply unlikely that Aziraphale is playing him for a fool and, even if his intention is to marry back into the succession, there does appear to be genuine warmth and attraction in his actions. Throwing caution to the wind, Anthony runs a gentle touch up the back of Aziraphale’s calf.

It’s only because he’s watching so carefully that Anthony sees Aziraphale’s reaction at all. His eyes widen for the briefest moment and his lips part to allow the tip of his pink tongue to swipe across them.

They make eye contact just as their empty plates are whisked away. Anthony is certain that he sees the smouldering embers of desire alight behind Aziraphale’s gaze. He can’t help but grin in return, feeling that same desire banked and burning in his own gut.

For the sake of decorum and not wanting to give anyone further reason to dislike him, Anthony makes a concerted effort to converse with the people sat either side of him. Aziraphale never stops in his gentle caresses of Anthony’s legs, all whilst giving no outward indication of his preoccupation. If Anthony could spare the brainpower, he might be impressed. As it is, all he can do is try to keep from blushing whilst talking to Sir Edward about his work in the city.

Two or three courses later and the meal appears to come to an end. Conversation flows and lapses in waves until Lord Fell pushes himself up from his seat.

“Gentlemen, shall we?” he asks the room at large.

Anthony doesn’t understand the question being asked, but he seems to be the only one in the dark as every other man at the table pushes back their chair and stands. He rushes to follow their lead, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. They file out of the room, Anthony trailing behind, leaving the women to do whatever it is they do after dinner. Apparently, these activities must be split by gender, Anthony thinks to himself.

Up ahead, he can see Aziraphale speaking with his father, their heads bowed together as they walk. He wonders if he should try to catch up or if that would be an impolite intrusion. His indecision takes the choice from him as Lord Fell claps his son on the shoulder and dismisses him. Aziraphale stops, letting the last few gentlemen walk around him until Anthony arrives.

“I suggested to Father that a tour of the house might be a better use of your time than brandy and cigars with that group of frightful bores.” Aziraphale is taking Anthony’s arm as he explains, steering him around and taking him back the way they had come.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Anthony manages, “That’s very kind of you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Aziraphale says, smiling in a way that makes Anthony’s cheeks flush. “Now, where have you seen already?”

When Anthony had arrived that afternoon, he’d been shown directly to the room he was to stay in that night. He had been fetched from that same room and shown to the drawing-room before dinner so his knowledge of the house is sparse, to say the least.

Aziraphale gives a very fine tour, merely pointing out his father’s study where the other male guests are gathered, and his mother’s drawing-room where the ladies have withdrawn, but otherwise showing Anthony every room in great detail. He demonstrates the electric lighting that Lord Fell has had installed throughout, gives anecdotes, both historical and personal, about each space. There’s the library with books that are older than the house, the sunroom with the stained glass salvaged from the catholic monastery that had stood here before the reformation, and the family dining room where the chandelier never hangs straight because of the time Lady Mary dared Aziraphale to see if he could hit the ceiling with a piece of toast.

Somewhere after the library but before the sunroom, Aziraphale takes Anthony’s hand, lacing their fingers together. They are standing in the portrait gallery when Anthony presses their shoulders together, stepping as close as he can. Neither of them makes a move to drop the hold they have of each others hand, a fact that Anthony runs through his head on repeat like a chant.

Aziraphale kisses him in the music room, a brief touch of lips that’s gone almost before Anthony can respond. Aziraphale pulls back to look him in the eyes, looking heavenly with his blond curls and rosy flushed cheeks.

“Is this alright?” he asks, lightly squeezing Anthony’s hand.

“Yes.” He barely gets the word out before their lips are together again.

The second kiss is more certain, more demanding. The hand that isn’t holding his winds around his waist, drawing his body flush to Aziraphale’s chest. At the touch of Aziraphale’s tongue, Anthony’s lips part so that he might get a taste.

Still sweet from the meringue of dessert and that final glass of wine, Aziraphale’s tongue overwhelms him. Anthony wraps his free arm around Aziraphale’s neck and licks into his mouth as attraction and desire pool together in his groin as arousal.

He’s teasing at Aziraphale’s bottom lip when Aziraphale pulls away. His eyes are shining bright and Anthony can’t help the way he reaches forward to try and reach Aziraphale’s lips again.

“Do you want this?” Aziraphale asks, dodging Anthony’s kiss. “Really, truly want this, with me, tonight?” He presses his hips into Anthony’s body, making his arousal obvious and removing all ambiguity from his words.

“Yes, god, yes,” Anthony moans between pressing kisses to Aziraphale’s jaw and neck, “God, I do want this, I want you. I’ll go to my knees right now if you’ll let me.”

The groan of desire that rumbles against Anthony’s lips is deeply fulfilling, Aziraphale is truly affected by him and that reassures almost as much as it arouses.

“Not here,” Aziraphale says, stepping away but keeping their hands linked. His eyes crinkle with mischief. “I have an idea.”

Anthony finds himself tugged out of the room and down another hallway. He keeps looking about, afraid that someone might catch them or suspect what is happening between them. Aziraphale pushes open a door identical to the one they’ve just left, flicks on the lights, and locks the door behind them. Anthony watches him twist the key an extra half turn and tug at it, testing its security.

“If you’d grown up with my sisters, you’d have learnt that trick too,” Aziraphale says, laughing. He pulls Anthony into another kiss, turning him so his back is against the wall.

For a while, Anthony thinks of nothing but kissing Aziraphale, chasing the sweetness of his mouth and stoking the flame within himself. Their arms wrap around each other, bringing their bodies close and tight, so that there can be no mistaking the shared passion.

It’s only when Aziraphale begins to trail kisses down Anthony’s throat that he allows himself a look at the room they’re in. One wall holds a collection of guns, some antique, some modern, and all showing signs of use. The opposite wall holds a similar collection of swords, glinting in the warm, electric light. Across from where Anthony is pressed into the wall, heavy velvet curtains hang from the ceiling to the floor, presumably covering large windows. The centre of the room is dominated by a full-size billiards table, racked up for a game, and various comfortable looking chairs sit around it.

Aziraphale’s hands undo the buttons of Anthony’s jacket, his lips returning to kiss Anthony properly. He shrugs the jacket off without a thought and reaches back for Aziraphale in turn. They shed layers frantically, jackets, waistcoats, and bow ties all quickly discarded in the quest to get closer and more intimate.

Aziraphale is tugging at Anthony’s collar when Anthony catches his hands, pressing kisses to his knuckles and begging him to slow for a moment.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks, pulling away enough to let them see each other.

“I just- That is, I mean- Damn it, I’m no good at this!” Words fail him, choked by the importance of the moment.

Aziraphale hushes him and kisses his cheeks sweetly.

“You can always change your mind, I won’t be cross.”

Anthony wants to cry at that statement, at the simple, open manner in which it is offered. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, picking his words before opening his mouth again.

“I just need to know what this is, before we go any further. Is this a one time bit of fun that we’ll never speak of again? Or do you want something more?” Anthony swallows and looks away, ashamed of his neediness. “I need to know where to level my hopes.”

“Oh, you sweet thing,” Aziraphale says, and it’s not mocking or cruel but soft and accepting. “This can be whatever you want it to be. This is fun, but I would as soon take you to my bed or follow you to yours. We’ve known each other just a few hours, but I do want to know you more and I have yet to find a single part of you that I don’t adore.”

“Right,” Anthony says, his throat tight with unwelcome emotions, “that’s, um, that’s good then.”

Before he can say anything else and destroy whatever favourable image Aziraphale has of him, he wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and kisses him until they’re both breathless.

He loses his shirt at some point, and his fingers pull Aziraphale’s shirttails out of his trousers, finding the skin underneath. With a goal in mind, he pushes off the wall and walks Aziraphale back until he falls into one of the armchairs.

Anthony drops to his knees, grateful for the thick rug, and begins to tug at the buttons on Aziraphale’s trousers. He’s too desperate, his fingers trembling as Aziraphale whispers encouragement and reassurances from above him. Finally, he wins his battle and Aziraphale’s cock springs free, thick and hard in a way that makes Anthony’s mouth water.

Glancing up at Aziraphale’s face, he sees only soft awe and joy. Thus encouraged, he wraps his fingers around Aziraphale’s shaft and strokes slowly.

“You’ve got such a gorgeous cock, look at how well it fills my hand. It’s going to stretch my mouth so beautifully, don’t you think? Do you want to see that? I’d love for you to fuck me with it, love to feel you fill me up with this thick masterpiece.” The dirty talk comes naturally to him now that he’s on his knees and looking at Aziraphale so flushed and beautiful.

For his part, Aziraphale only nods and pushes into Anthony’s hand, asking for more. Anthony is happy to oblige him, stroking his length a few more times before pressing his lips to the head in a wet kiss.

He laps at the head before drawing it into his mouth and suckling. Above him, Aziraphale gasps in pleasure and his hands dance over Anthony’s head and shoulders, desperate to touch but unable to decide where. Anthony sucks him deeper before drawing back, setting up a steady, if slow, rhythm of sliding down and drawing back up. He takes Aziraphale’s cock deeper into his mouth with each cycle, getting accustomed to the pressure on his tongue and the stretch of his lips.

The salt-sour taste that leaks from Aziraphale is exquisite, so different to the sweetness of his mouth and yet just as intoxicating. Anthony palms himself through his trousers as he sucks, trying to relieve some of his own tension.

When he feels able, Anthony takes a deep, slow breath and pushes past the resistance of his throat until he can’t breathe and Aziraphale’s cock is lodged deep in him. The grunting gasp that Aziraphale makes would make Anthony grin like a lunatic if his mouth wasn’t stretched wide already.

After a few seconds, he pulls all the way off and takes a shivering breath. Chancing a look up at Aziraphale, hoping to see some evidence of the effect he’s having, Anthony’s heart clenches in his chest. He’s so beautiful and dishevelled, with colour high on his cheeks, and his lips bitten in ecstasy. The way he looks at Anthony is unbearably fond and open. Anthony has to force himself back down to choking on Aziraphale’s erection before his awful mouth can betray him with words.

This time, when his lungs begin to burn, he only pulls up enough to suck in a breath before giving his full attention to working up and down Aziraphale’s shaft, drawing all manner of delicious noises from him.

With one hand still pressed against the front of his own trousers, Anthony reaches up blindly to feel for Aziraphale’s chest. He wants to feel the solidity of him, the rise and fall of his breathing, to feel connected to him. Aziraphale catches his hand and kisses his knuckles, murmuring praise between his desperate gasps. Finally, he presses Anthony’s palm to his chest, covering it with his own hand. Anthony is so pleased by this obvious understanding of his needs that he almost doesn’t register Aziraphale’s other hand stroking his hair.

Thick fingers comb from his temple to the back of his head, encouraging and soothing him when he gets too eager. He pushes Aziraphale back into his throat and reaches up to clasp the hand at the back of his head, urging Aziraphale to hold him in place and take his pleasure. He doesn’t think that Aziraphale has understood until he moves to pull off and finds that he can’t, he’s pinned securely with his nose crushed against Aziraphale’s pelvis.

Without warning, the hand that was holding him steady curls in his hair and pulls him completely off. Anthony puts his hands out to brace for his collapse to the floor but instead finds himself lifted up to Aziraphale’s lap.

With his face a mess and Aziraphale’s wet prick between them, Aziraphale kisses him like he’s precious and wonderful, it cracks something inside Anthony’s chest, to be treated so gently after being used so filthily. A noise suspiciously close to a sob bubbles up from within him and Aziraphale kisses it away.

“May I fuck you?” Aziraphale asks between soft kisses, “I want to make you feel so very good, my darling.”

“Yes, god, Aziraphale,” Anthony kisses him again, desperately trying to find the limit of what he’s allowed, “Anything you want.”

Carefully, Aziraphale stands him up and unbuttons his trousers before helping him step out of them completely. The outline of his erection is so obvious in the white cotton of his underwear, Anthony makes a half-hearted attempt to press it up against his stomach so as to look less obscene. Tutting at him, Aziraphale pulls down Anthony’s underwear and takes him in hand, making pleased noises as he looks his fill.

Just as Anthony feels though he may combust from the heat of Aziraphale’s considering gaze, he’s pushed backwards and turned just before he hits the billiards table.

“Rest there for me, there’s a good chap,” Aziraphale says as he guides Anthony down with a hand on the back of his neck.

The balls scatter, clacking loudly against each other as Anthony sweeps them away, making space on the table.

He can feel Aziraphale behind him, stroking over his thighs and buttocks with affectionate caresses that he pushes back into like a touch-starved cat. Aziraphale pushes Anthony’s vest up his back to stroke more of his skin, whispering little compliments as he goes.

Anthony is just about to beg Aziraphale to hurry up and take him when he feels a spit-slick finger circling his hole. Muffling a choked-off cry of pleasure in his arms, Anthony presses back and forces himself to relax, letting Aziraphale’s finger breach him in a sweetly stretching burn.

He hisses under his breath, adjusting and fidgeting as he yearns to be filled by Aziraphale’s beautiful cock.

“How’s that, my darling?” Aziraphale asks, making tiny movements with his hand, “Is that alright?”

“Yes, good. More.” Anthony can’t summon anything more coherent and Aziraphale chuckles kindly.

His prayers are answered when Aziraphale slips his finger free, spits into his palm, and presses the wet head of his cock against Anthony’s hole.

“Gently, slowly,” he chides as Anthony tries to push back, holding his hip with one hand to still him.

The breach is slow and agonisingly delicious. The thick head of Aziraphale’s erection eases into him at a pace only emulated by glaciers and Anthony feels as though he may live the rest of his natural life, pinned to this green table, being slowly fucked by Aziraphale. It’s not an unpleasant thought.

“There we are,” Aziraphale says, breathless and molten, “Still all right there?”

The answering noise that Anthony makes is from no language on Earth but undeniably positive. All his thoughts are of Aziraphale and the place where they are joined, the spine-tingling pleasure that blossoms with every little push and gasp.

An eternity later, Anthony feels the firm pressure of Aziraphale’s hips against his buttocks. Firm hands stroke his back and sides, soothing the gulping breaths he’s taking, and helping him to relax around the incredible stretch.

As Aziraphale begins to move, a slow drag out that tortures him in all the very best ways, Anthony cries out. His nails scrabble at the baize of the table as he arches his back and begs Aziraphale to ruin him. There’s no fear now, no uncertainty about motives or depth of affection, only the consuming need to be filled and taken, for Aziraphale to bring them both to the peak of pleasure and keep them there for as long as possible.

He’s vaguely aware of Aziraphale groaning above him, hissing between his teeth and gasping Anthony’s name. The knowledge that Aziraphale is as caught up as Anthony fills him with a blazing fire. He wants so much, everything that Aziraphale can give him and more. He wants a fist in his hair and a hand on this throat. He wants punishing thrusts that bring tears to his eyes and make him spill drops of pre-ejaculate on the floor.

What he gets is infinitely better, a softness that he didn’t know was possible and a tenderness that leaves him exposed and vulnerable, yet safe.

Aziraphale takes him apart by fractions, moving within him just enough to keep him desperately aroused as he adjusts, only beginning to thrust when Anthony can truly take it. Even then, his movements are careful and measured. He hits the spot that lights up all of Anthony’s nerves with each push, rocking within him more than the animalistic in-and-out thrusts that Anthony had expected. All the while, he calls Anthony beautiful, precious, delicious, he tells him that he’s worth everything, that’s he’s so good just as he is.

When Anthony feels as though he can’t take any more, when his body is screaming like a tea kettle on the stove, Aziraphale pulls him back onto his cock and trembles with release. His hand is reaching for Anthony’s cock while the broken gasps are still shaking free from his throat.

With his cock still hard and twitching inside Anthony, Aziraphale strokes him expertly until he’s spilling into Aziraphale’s palm.

“Oh god, oh fuck,” Anthony says as though that can express the depth of the pleasure he’s just experienced.

“Quite,” says Aziraphale, a smile in his voice. “Hold still for me, my beauty, I need a moment.”

And, _good god,_ he sounds wrecked. Anthony stays as still as he can, willing his legs to support him for a few more minutes, until Aziraphale pulls out.

Immediately, he misses the solid warmth of Aziraphale behind him. The feeling of cooling ejaculate sliding down his inner thigh seems almost mocking in its contrast. He bites back a whimper that would only be unbecoming and moves to push himself up from the table.

A heavy palm between his shoulder blades halts his progress and gently encourages him back down.

“Let me get you cleaned up first,” Aziraphale says gently.

He wipes away the evidence of their tryst with a soft cloth, making soothing sounds when Anthony squirms under his attention. Only once Aziraphale is content that Anthony is well-tended does he allow him to stand.

In only his vest, Anthony is surprised to see that Aziraphale has his shirt and trousers back in place. He feels exposed and uncertain again, wondering how much affection he might now be allowed. It must show in his eyes because Aziraphale throws the cloth onto a chair and draws Anthony to him, kissing him soundly and holding him close.

“Whatever you want this to be, remember,” Aziraphale reminds him when their lips finally part.

Smiling, Anthony buries his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, rubbing his cheek against the crisply starched collar and winding his arms about his waist.

“Take me to bed,” Anthony says into Aziraphale’s neck, “please.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale says before kissing Anthony’s hair.

They dress each other, often getting distracted from the work of fastening buttons by the allure of available lips and blushing cheeks, until they look almost as presentable as they had before entering the room. Aziraphale takes his hand and unlocks the door, leading Anthony through a maze of corridors and staircases until they reach Aziraphale’s bedroom. They encounter no one in the halls and it makes them bold, laughing and kissing before closing the bedroom door behind them.

There may be a scandal when it’s discovered that Anthony has spent the night in Aziraphale’s bed but Anthony thinks that it’s a scandal worth inviting. He curls up around Aziraphale’s soft, warm back and closes his eyes, his lips pressed into Aziraphale’s shoulder in a kiss that will last for hours.


End file.
